~ The lofty side of this is that I am a mom on a mission. I am striving to create a better world by being the best, most inner-directed mother I know how to be. The other side of this is that I became a mom… on purpose. Meaning, I chose this. But man, it can be hard.

Category Archives: Life Lessons

This week marks the 2 year anniversary of the hardest week of my life. Even as I write that, I wonder – was it really the hardest? Maybe not the most stressful in some ways, but yes, definitely the hardest.

These days, those memories carry far less sting and heaviness than they have in the past. Time has helped to heal my grief, although the sadness certainly lingers. And today, I find myself marvelling at how life overlaps – simultaneously being in memory of people and past – while being in the middle of our busy, multifaceted life.

While I do personally believe that there is a ‘design’ to our lives, and that everything does happen for a reason (although we may not always grasp what that may be), I don’t have gratitude that we have lost loved people from our lives. When I let myself drop into the memories fully, I feel deeply saddened by missing them. I wish that my Nanny would still be living in her house in Placentia, Newfoundland when Dean, Ethan, Audra and I travel there for the first time as a family. And I miss the frequent phone calls from Dean’s dad, his teasing ways, and his standard but heartfelt “Love you, sweetie” goodbye. I miss the yearly visits and great conversations. I miss Dean’s dad.

Based on my own beliefs, I could draw comfort from knowing that they are in a loving and beautiful place – and I do. I’m sure that losing someone you love would be an entirely different experience if there was no belief in the concept that our spirits live on. But I am sad for us – for those of us who miss people who have left. I am sad for my children – that they had such finite contact with these two prominent people; I am sad for my mom and her siblings and extended family, and I am sad for Dean’s mom. Losing people leaves a hole that will never be replaced.

No, I don’t have gratitude that we no longer have those people in our lives. But – I do have gratitude to know that we were able to weather that storm together as a family. I do take comfort in seeing that other family members also miss their presence, and in doing so, bring us closer together. I am strengthened by knowing that our kids have witnessed and experienced deep grief, and still found healthy ways to express themselves and grow through the pains. I admire my extended family, and especially my husband, Dean and my mother-in-law, Diane for the fortitude and resiliency they have shown despite heartbreak.

If it were up to me, and I could bring loved ones back, I would do so. I would choose to have Dean’s dad in our lives for many more years. We weren’t ready for his passing, and even now – 2 years later – his presence is missed in our lives.

I wish he were here now to see Audra turn 11 years old tomorrow. I wish our kids could share with him their enthusiasm over their 3-hour bike adventure today after school. I wish he could tease Ethan about his long and shaggy hair, and tell Audra to slow down her desire to be a teenager.

I can imagine how our lives could be different if they were still alive. The loss of my grandmother and father-in-law will forever be linked in my mind, simply because they occurred in such close proximity to each other and they were the hardest losses I have ever experienced.

Two years later sometimes feels like a lifetime has passed. We have relocated across the country, started our lives over in Nova Scotia, and set our roots deeply into being here for good. Life has its challenges still – it is busy, sometimes bringing unexpected challenges, or unanticipated joys. Life here -now and then – has been both joyful and heartbreaking.

Perhaps that is life, after all. Good and bad, pain and joy, birth and death -all are natural parts of life. I for one would rather embrace it all, remembering each moment poignantly, and being grateful for the time we still have with those we love.

With deepest love and appreciation for everyone in our lives, both past and present – thank you. We love you forever.

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The other day, old memories bowled me over like a tidal wave when we had a family evening at one of our favourite places, Lawrencetown Beach. While my senses were filled with the pounding waves and bright evening sun, I was not expecting the intense emotions that the visit brought.

As Audra and I walked down the beach, I was immediately brought back to a memory of being in that same place seven years earlier: 2008. Our lives were different. We lived in Ontario and our kids were still little – 3 & 5 years old. I vividly recall that trip 7 years ago, when my heart longed to live in Nova Scotia, but yet our roots seemed to be going deeper into Ontario soil every passing year.

“Hey! Take a picture of me doing a handstand here!” I suggested remembering that in 2008, Dean took a picture of me in a handstand at Lawrencetown Beach, which then became a visual reminder to me of where I intended for us to live one day.

Knowing that I had posted it on Facebook way-back-when, I checked out the album, only to have time hit me hard.

It seemed that I was the only one who hadn’t changed. (much…)

Lawrencetown 2008

Lawrencetown 2015

When I saw the pictures of our kids on that trip – so little and sweet, so dependent and full of childlike awe at everything – my mommy-heart mourned a little. Time is passing too fast. Where did seven years go? How fast will these next ones pass?!

Ethan and Audra Ages 5 & 3

Ethan and Audra Ages 12 & 10

And then, while my heart was already mourning, I came upon this one from Lawrencetown in 2008:

Casey was never happier than when in the water – and she loved the ocean!

This particular memory was more poignant than I was ready for, as it had only been 2 weeks since we had faced the difficult decision to finally say our last goodbyes to our beloved dog. In Casey’s last days, she was so slow that walks around our yard had become slow and halting – the true definition of pain-staking. But what I truly mourned was what she was like in this memory – full of energy, life and joy.

Rocks we painted for when we bury Casey’s ashes

I had a good cry at Lawrencetown Beach last week (something I am quite certain I didn’t do at any other time there!) But yet it was glorious. As I breathed in the ocean air with the sound of waves crashing in my ears, I wondered at the mystery of time.

How can seven years feel simultaneously like yesterday and a lifetime ago? How can it be that in such a short time so much can change? Kids grow up, people grow older, people (and dogs) leave our lives forever. (I still hold true that if I had my choice of super-powers, I’d like to fly, and the ability to occasionally freeze time.)

I can’t ignore the sadness that still comes (about both of these trains of thought). I can only focus on the two things I know to do:

1 – Be grateful for what I have, and the memories I’ve garnered along the way;

2 – Be as present in the moment as I can be. After all, this moment RIGHT NOW is the only one I have any power over.

I can’t afford to let my life pass me by. It’s easy to get busy, be distracted, or to numb out. But I don’t want to miss out, even when memories hit me with such ferocity of emotion.

The funny thing about time is that one day – relatively soon – I’ll look back at these pictures of 2015 and feel like today was an eon in the past.

The second time was a few mornings ago. To put it in perspective, a 15 year old lab is like a 100 year old human. We know she is winding down, and I will readily admit that I get anxious over losing her. To know that there is heart break coming our way isn’t a pleasant feeling, but it is a reality when you love an old dog.

Casey and Dean travelling from ON to NS

Months back, I had accepted that there was probably a 50/50 chance of Casey still being around to move across the country with us. And as the moving date approached, I was nervous about how she would do with the 2000 km drive. But she was a trooper and travelled like a champ, while I took great pleasure in knowing that she would end her days on Nova Scotia soil.

Ethan walking Casey along the Hubbards waterfront

I relished our slow morning walks along the oceanside road in Hubbards where we stayed for our first month. I enjoyed the fall days walking her around the beautiful gardens in our new back yard. (The irony did not escape us that we finally have acres to romp in, but with a dog who no longer romps).

Through it all, however, we watched her slow decline. Yes, she still eats with gusto, and loves to snoop outside, but her walks have gotten shorter – especially this past month since the snow arrived. She slips and falls more often. It takes a lot of effort for her to get up from lying down, and she rarely greets anyone with so much as a tail wag. Actually, she rarely notices if people arrive at all, and often snores her way through visits in deaf oblivion.

I find myself wondering “Will I know when her time is up?” and “Is she suffering in ways that I can’t tell?” I hope that when it happens it won’t be with any decision-making on my part, and that she passes quietly in her sleep. (And selfishly, that I am not alone when she is discovered).

Casey smells – that’s one thing about owning a dog that I won’t miss. For the past year she has been known to poop randomly in the house, occasionally in her sleep, and sometimes – infuriatingly – in the house immediately upon coming in from a walk. In the past few months, she’s even started peeing in the house. Our window of time for her to hold her bladder has gone from all day (if needed) to 4 hours. And there were some days last week that she even peed in the house when I was right there to let her out. We now need to arrange dog-walkers if we will be out all day – or to arrange our days to include pit-stops at home in the midst of our travels. The irony isn’t lost on me that as our kids’ dependancy on us (and bathroom / clean up roles) have decreased and given us more freedom – we’ve become tied down by taking care of Casey.

Dean has taken the past-midnight-shift to let her out, while I’m up by 6am to start the day with her. Every morning now I walk down the stairs wondering if she will have made it through without peeing everywhere. My morning routine of Amy-time has become one of mopping, walking, and cleaning. I have a mini-celebration every day I come down to a clean floor. But we’ve chalked it up to life with an old dog. We see the signs of her decline, but also still see her healthy appetite and easy-going personality. We haven’t seen signs of her being about to go, and we haven’t been ready to consider when that might be.

Until this week.

Thursday morning I came down and did a happy-dance that there was no mess to clean up. I quickly strapped Casey’s leash on to head outside for a walk. But she was extra slow in getting up – and then proceeded to pee immediately upon standing. As I watched in sleepy confusion, she trembled and peed, then fell and began shaking on the floor, with little stones all through the mess.

Kidney stones?! My dog just peed out over a dozen kidney stones?! I know what kind of pain that causes in humans, and I felt nauseous. I helped her to her feet and got her outside – where she stumbled and fell several times, in obvious pain. Once back inside, she laid back down rather than going to her food, while I cleaned up the mess and wondered what to do.

With my stomach in knots, and an ache in my heart, I got the kids ready for school. I tried to hide my concern from them, but nothing passes Audra’s observant eyes. I tried not to cry, but didn’t do so well keeping it together while I explained, yet again, about Casey being an old dog who wouldn’t be with us for too much longer. I didn’t hide from them the fact that she had passed kidney stones and was in pain.

But I did hide from them my deep-seated fear that this was it. As they went out the door, Dean came downstairs to be surprised by my flying, tearful hug as I gulped out my dreaded fear that this might be Casey’s last day.

Audra’s early morning cuddles with Casey this week

Having a beloved pet brings with it a level of love that is not explainable with words. Casey was our first baby, and has been with us through almost our entire lives together as a couple. She has travelled across Canada with us. She ran circles around us as we hiked up the mountain in Kananaskis where we got engaged. She has lived with us in 2 different apartments and 2 different houses in Ontario, before moving to Nova Scotia this past year. She was there at the births of both of our children (literally, as we had them born at home), and I will forever remember her calm presence and how it helped me cope when I was in labour with Ethan. She was Audra’s source of comfort even as a toddler, when she would cuddle in to Casey whenever she was frustrated about anything. She has been the most athletic, gentle and loving dog we could ever ask for. I don’t doubt that I will feel a huge void in my life when she goes.

But getting back to our story – Casey is still here with us a few days later. It wasn’t quite her time to go – but I know it is coming soon.

When we had her at the vet, they agreed that she likely had a matter of months left, and supported our plan to keep her comfortable and with some quality of life for the remainder of her days. They pointed out how rare it was for a 15-year-old lab to be medication-free (unfortunately, most dogs are like the majority of people in their 90’s who are often on multiple medications). They pointed out the signs of what was good with her still – a great-sounding heart, a curious personality, a healthy appetite and healthy stools – as well as what was not so good: namely that she was in a lot of pain due to a raging bladder infection and her deteriorating hips.

We readily agreed to a medicated solution for her. While our personal approach to health for ourselves and our dog has always been ‘natural first’ – in this case, we knew that medications were the best and fastest way to help Casey regain some quality of life. We happily paid for a course of antibiotics and pain medications, content that there was something yet to be done.

Her response to the medications was almost immediate, with her bladder control seeming to improve overnight, while she moved with greater ease by the next day. She is even a little less smelly due to the medicated shampoo we got to help with her allergies and skin.

We are happy to see signs of her greater comfort and mobility (as well as no messes to clean up in the house). However, while I am relieved that this wasn’t quite ‘it’ – I know her days are growing shorter. I am both grateful and a little heart-achy when I look at her. I still hope to one day find that she has passed quietly into her forever-sleep. We have discussed this with our kids and they have plans for how they want to bury her and remember her. Dean and I agree that we may never get another dog once she goes. Who could replace Casey? No other dog on earth in our minds.

Audra decided to run away today. It completely thwarted my plans for this morning.

It all began as such a lovely morning. After a cozy sleep in (7:45!), I went for a bundled up walk in our beautiful-but-frosty yard with our dog, Casey, only to be pleasantly surprised by Audra coming to join me. She had bundled up her two favourite stuffies (Mimzey and Ms. Bunny Winkie) to join us. Outside in the cool sunshine with my dog and my girl. What a wonderfully simple moment.

As I began planning the day, I thought: what a great idea it would be to take Audra to the market and craft show! I love outings with my girl. I pictured us browsing leisurely along, maybe stopping for a hot chocolate or a treat. I envisioned her happy face as she chose what she wanted to spend her $5 on. I’d have to say, that as our kids have gotten older, having these one-on-one times has become more and more special to all of us, and I was happily looking forward to my morning date with Audra. And so was she.

Back inside, as I sipped my coffee downstairs, I could hear the kids playing lego together. Ahh, I reflected contentedly, no TV, no electronics, kids getting along, life is good.

But as the way that things sometimes unfold, my peaceful morning was about to change. I won’t say it was too good to be true – but maybe it it just was not destined to be long-lived. Upstairs, the sounds of happy play were beginning to morph. Bickering and bossing began to escalate. Voices became louder – I’ll let them work it out, I thought.

And then the yelling began, signalling some parenting intervention was soon to be required. *Sigh.* I debated ignoring them for longer: Maybe they would sort it out on their own…. Unfortunately, that just didn’t happen. Oh well, I thought, it was a lovely 45 minutes.

As things played out, the kids just weren’t getting along any longer, and I opted to separate them. But as our feisty girl can have the tendency to do, she became more angry as her response to getting in trouble. My simple fix of separation became the beginning of some serious head-butting. While Ethan contentedly moved on to other activities in his room, Audra seethed. Sometimes her emotions run so hot that she doesn’t know how to cope with their intensity. And in this instance, she decided to completely defy my instructions to put the lego away, opting instead to play with it (citing that she thought she would feel better and not be so angry by doing so). Apparently, the idea of consequences was lost on her this morning.

To escalate things further, she became further enraged when I discovered her playing with the confiscated lego – and implemented further consequences of not having a friend over later on should this type of behaviour continue. She stormed off, tears streaming down her face, as I shook my head in bewilderment.

After giving her some time to cool off, I peeked in her room, only to find her angrily packing her every belonging into a large suitcase. I didn’t know whether to be concerned for the palpable anger emanating from her nine-year-old body (let’s just say that if looks could kill, I’d be worried) – or to be amused. Doesn’t every kid want to run away at one point?

As an adult, I know that she won’t go anywhere, so it is amusing. BUT – as I put myself into her young shoes, my perspective changes.

I recall running away once – and while I don’t remember what triggered the decision, when I revisit that particular memory, I can still feel the anger and frustration that I felt as a young child. If I recall correctly, I ran down the street and sat on the curb. I could see our house (Did I bring a bag of food, maybe? Or other prized belongings? I think I must have.) As I sat there on the curb, I wondered how much I would be missed. And in that moment, life was hard.

In this instance, I told Audra that I would be heart broken if I didn’t get to see her every day, but that I understood that she was angry. (Dean later asked her where she was going to go – to which she replied: the backyard.) However, I also pointed out that the trigger for her anger was that she didn’t like the consequences I had given her for her earlier behaviour. I suggested that she determine if there was another way to deal with her emotions, and said I was going to give her some time to cool off.

A little while later, Ethan came down at her request, delivering a note:

(She calls me Molly, amongst other nicknames)

As the morning played out, she had one last emotional outburst, when I told her that our morning outing wouldn’t be happening. Much as I wanted to go out – how could I reward her behaviour? I think it’s one of the challenges of being of mom: sometimes we suffer the consequences, too.

“Can’t we just begin the day over?”she implored. “Yes” I said, “But the consequences will still apply: We won’t be going out this morning.” “Can’t I have a second chance?” she asked. “Of course,” I said, “Maybe by this afternoon things can change.”

Now, a few hours later, all is once again quiet in our home. The kids are playing upstairs, and the sun is still shining outside. I feel a little antsy to get out, but my original plans were simply not to be. And while Audra’s suitcase is still packed, she seems to have come to terms with the morning and is back to being her usual self.

Maybe we’ll have another chat once she decides to unpack her things. Maybe the whole day will have a second chance.

In my ‘new life’, I am on sabbatical. I can’t say it’s entirely of my own choosing, as there are factors at play that are out of my control. We are essentially at the whim of ‘the system’, jumping through many hoops, and waiting (somewhat) patiently to be given the green light to move forward with our plans to open up my new practice.

Although I knew that there would be a period of time between leaving my life in Ontario, and creating a new one here in Nova Scotia, the imposed sabbatical has shown me that I like to be in control far more than I was aware of. I may be a thinker, but I am also a do-er. Apparently I like to be the one calling the shots (yes, friends, you can laugh here – I am aware that I like to be the leader). But I wasn’t aware of how hard it can be to let go and trust. Giving into that – trusting that things will all work out – is giving up a whole different kind of control. And that one’s been an eye opener for me. Despite evidence to the contrary, and the fact that everything is turning out exactly as I wish it to be – albeit more slowly – isn’t always enough to keep me in a state of trust.

I want to lean into this, and trust wholeheartedly that everything is turning out exactly as it should. The truth is that I have to constantly quell the voices of fear and doubt. I have to accept that there are some things that are not in my control. And that oftentimes, life moves along at a speed that is different than what I want. (Funny how life’s challenges show you sides of yourself that you were not fully aware of.)

It’s been over two months since we left our life in Ontario to move home to Nova Scotia.And in the quirky way that time flows, it simultaneously feels like light years in the past, and just yesterday that I left. One of the hardest things I ever did was to walk away from the hundreds of families I had come to know and love in my chiropractic practice there. While I am happy to know that they were left in very capable hands, it doesn’t change the fact that I miss them. Facebook pictures of babies and kids only go so far. The ten years of history and connection I had with the people there were deep and very real – and if I were fully honest, I’d have to say that when the fears or doubts come up – they are about whether I will be able to create the same level of connection and community here that I did there. Realistically I know I can and I will. But the doubts still creep in.

It’s a lot like when Ethan laments the friendships he left in our little town of Beeton. While he plays with kids at school, and generally is happy, we know it will take a while to forge new connections like those he had with the kids he knew for over five years. It would be nice if we could just jump right in – but time can’t be rushed – in his case, or in mine. I have to take the advice we give to him – to be himself and know that the friendships will come. From my perspective as an adult, I know that he has yet to make the friends that will likely stay with him for a lifetime.

So, in the light of listening to the same wisdom – I have to trust that I will be able to build a new practice full of people and families who I will come to know and love – just like I did in Ontario (Is it possible for it to be more?!… I don’t know.)

What I am missing is the opportunity to build relationships with people, to remind them that they are designed to be extra-ordinary, and to help them through the hands-on power of chiropractic, and guidance in creating a lifestyle around them and their families that will allow them to truly thrive. I miss feeling like I am making a difference. In my current bubble, my influence is small, my ability to reach and inspire people is unknown. I feel like I am hibernating.

It is scary starting over.

The funny thing is that now I have the family support around me that I never had in Ontario – the one thing that I could’t create there is inherently part of our lives here. Family and friends have been instrumental in holding me up or helping out when I’ve most needed it.

What I miss is knowing that I play an important role in families’ lives. I miss the people that we left in Ontario. I miss knowing that I make a difference in my community.

On the good days, I am excited for what is yet to come, for the relationships that I am yet to build, and the connections that are yet to be created.

I guess what it comes down to is perspective. (Isn’t it always?) I can’t force life to move faster, just because I am impatient to start building a new practice here. I can either moan and complain – or suck it up, and keep taking action to prepare. I can treat this sabbatical like my time to process and heal – like a snake shedding its skin – so that when the time comes, I am ready to fully embrace my new life here.

It is, after all, where we are finally putting our roots down. It is where my heart has always been. Maybe what I need to remind myself of is this: we had a great life and great friends in Ontario, and I created an amazing practice there. But there is a deeper question here – perhaps what I should be asking myself is this:

What am I capable of now that I am in the place where my heart has always been?

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Today our kids started at a new school. It’s a long way – 2000 km – from their last school, as we are trying to settle in to our new Nova Scotia lives (despite the fact that we are still, essentially, homeless). As I sit and write from a seaside dock, looking out over the still waters of the inlet by the cottage we have rented for the month, I am breathing in the fresh sea air, grateful for the calming effect of the beauty around me.

I’d like to pretend that this is vacation. After all, I don’t have a ‘job’ to go to (yet), and I have not yet established a new routine. The truth is that there is still too much uncertainty for it to be relaxing. Far from it, actually. I am trying my best to appreciate these little moments, but the truth is that I like to plan. I like routine. I like planning. And it’s been so many months of uncertainty and change that it can get in the way of fully enjoying these little moments.

I am not adverse to change. As a matter of fact, I embrace it. This time, however, we’ve taken on our fair share. We have moved across the country – from Ontario to Nova Scotia – to be closer to family. We still don’t have a home (although we’ve had an offer in on one since July 2nd). And because of that, I still don’t know when I will be able to open my new chiropractic practice. I don’t know when I will feel settled. And in reality, once we are in our house (a building that I will also be practicing out of), we will be busy in a way that may possibly eclipse the hectic pace of this past year. Maybe right now is a breather – like the calm before the storm. Or more accurately, the calm between storms, as these past few months have been absurdly crazy.

Four months ago, our world turned upside down when Dean’s dad passed away from a sudden heart attack. Three months ago, I found the right chiropractor to buy my Ontario practice, setting in motion the many steps to relocating our entire lives. Two months ago, I announced to my practice and friends that we would be leaving Ontario, while simultaneously putting an offer in on a house/practice in Nova Scotia and preparing to list our Ontario home. One month ago, we said our final Ontario goodbyes, put our kids on a one-way flight to Halifax, and then drove East with all of our belongings. These past few weeks have been full of family time, beaches, and summer fun east-coast style. But they have also been full of stress, with daily interactions with lawyers, accountants, realtors and banks.

When I look back on these past four months, I can’t count the number of times I have been literally brought to my knees with stress, so close to the breaking point that I wonder if and how I can handle any more. Amidst comments from people of ‘how brave we are to start over’, ‘how inspiring that we have followed our dreams to move home’, right to the frank admission of many that ‘they couldn’t handle the insecurity and uncertainty of what we’ve taken on’, I’ve questioned how much I can handle, but never whether this was the right choice for our family.

I will admit that sometimes I feel I’m taking it all in stride, while other times, I wonder. Ethan has candidly pointed out to me that he’s been yelled at more this past month than ever before (which is likely true, unfortunately). Audra has sometimes regressed into acting like a kindergarten-aged kid, while other times being a life-saving and mature helper with her little cousins. The have both taken turns being absolutely golden – and driving us crazy with their bickering, whining and bugging.

With all of this, I am once again grateful for our decision to be real with our kids. I can’t fathom trying to always put on a brave face for them, when I’ve grieved deeply for all of the goodbyes we’ve had to say in recent months, from the stress we’ve been under, and sometimes just from sheer exhaustion. But they’ve also been free with their hugs, loving notes and artwork, and moments of mature understanding. They’ve handled these huge changes with such strength and courage that my heart swells with pride. They admit that they are uncertain and nervous – but more excited than scared. We’ve had great talks, lots of quality family time together, and the beauty of Nova Scotia to ground us. In this sense, I can draw strength from knowing that within our little family unit – everything that matters is good. (And eventually, the home, routine, and settling-in will come.)

Our decision to aim to be consciously present to the moments in front of us has allowed us to still make the most of our month of East Coast summer, despite the underlying uncertainty and strain. Without this awareness, I think we’d lose sight of all of the wonderful things that are happening around us, and the little moments of joy would be lost altogether.

We’ve been to numerous ocean beaches, lakes and pools; Ethan has even tried surfing already; we took a ferry ride yesterday only to be awed by the joyful group of dolphins jumping alongside the boat; we’ve explored the beautiful South Shore with its marinas, hikes, caves, wharves and beauty, and enjoyed many visits with family and friends. We have spent more time with our 5 nieces and nephew than ever possible before, had sleep overs, campfires, and impromptu family dinners. We’ve fallen right back into place with some of our oldest friendships, and have plans for many more fun times together.

It’s been wonderful – albeit tough, emotional, and daunting.

When I think of the brave faces on our kids this morning as they walked into a sea of unknown faces at their new school – and remember their nerves and excitement of last night and this morning – I am not worried for them at all. As a matter of fact, I am greatly looking forward to hearing about their day when we pick them up in a few hours. And I fully expect that the good will outweigh the bad.

So, taking a page from their book – I, too will admit that I am scared and uncertain – but also excited. While the transition to moving into our home and opening my new practice is one that I am anticipating will take months rather than days – I trust wholeheartedly that this move was the right one for all of us. I don’t expect it to be easy (it hasn’t been!). But I do expect it to be the best choice possible for our family – and that make the hard times worth the stress and strain.

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“These are happy tears!” I had to call out to Dean as I ran downstairs, laughing while I sobbed. Otherwise he would have looked at me, wondering what had gone wrong.
“I just booked our kids on a one-way flight to Halifax.”

I hadn’t expected this to make me cry. I spent the half hour on the phone arranging their unaccompanied minor flights, happily posted this news on Facebook, stating it was ‘absolutely surreal after 16 years away from home.’ And then I read that statement and something in me let go.

We are going HOME.

We are moving our entire lives across the country. And for the first time in a long time, my tears are happy ones.

It’s been a tough road. We have a life here, amazing friends, great memories, and a practice full of families that I truly love. I have grieved over all of the people we will miss many times, and deeply.

Even yesterday, as I drove home from work with Audra, I had a quiet cry over some of the good-byes I had said that morning. I didn’t think she’d notice the tears on my cheeks from the back seat – but she did.

“Mom, are you crying?” she asked, turning her music off.

“Yes”, I replied.

“Why?!” she asked.

“I’m crying over all the people I am going to miss in my practice,” I said.

“But you’ll get new people in Nova Scotia,” she offered without pause, making me laugh at her quick-thinking and pragmatic mind.

“And it can’t be as hard as all of the times we’ve had to say good-bye to our family.”

WOW. Yes, that summed it up in a nutshell.

It is very hard to go – as a matter of fact, this move might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. In my practice, the outpouring of understanding, mixed with tears and hugs has unexpectedly made this the most humbling experience I’ve ever had. I am humbled to my core to see how much my love for my practice has been very much a two-way street. (And that’s not even touching on the friendships that will now become long-distance.)

The truth is that we are going TOWARDS something that we want more than anything else in the world: to raise our children around family. My heart fairly explodes at the idea that my 4 nieces and 1 nephew are young enough that they won’t really remember a time in their life when Auntie Amy didn’t live nearby. The joy that I feel when I think of all the times Ethan and Audra will get to have with my parents, their cousins and their aunts and uncles is indescribable.

We don’t yet know for sure if we even have a home to move into… (our offer is pending!). I don’t know how long it will take me to build a new practice. There are so many unknowns right now that I can’t even begin to list them all.

Like this:

Please be aware that this blog will not be a happy one. I am writing it on what is likely to be one of the most challenging days I have ever faced.

As I type, we are flying across Canada – unexpectedly and heartbrokenly. I am not yet ready to come to terms with the reason we have stopped our lives – nor to look into the deep pit of sadness that I am wishing would lay dormant in my heart.

We have become a statistic- one of those families who gets the ‘dreaded call in the middle of the night.’ We have lost Dean’s dad – our adored Grandpa – to a sudden heart attack. I am not yet ready to drop down into that pit and feel all of the emotions that are brewing there. It is too raw, and too surreal.

I don’t know what to expect when the plane lands and Dean greets me and the kids. I have no idea what it must have felt like him to arrive home yesterday to a world without his dad. I can’t even begin to imagine how lost his mom must be. And for my own sake, and that of our kids, I can only touch on those thoughts for very short periods of time. If I stay too long, I wonder if my heart might shatter. I want to ‘fix it all’…. and I can’t.

On my end, I’ve had 24 hours between bringing Dean to the airport and this flight taking off with me, Ethan and Audra on board. I’ve found myself bouncing between moments of intense sadness, disbelief, concern for Dean, his mom, his brother and Baba – and uncertainty over how this is going to play out with our family, and especially with our kids.

The reality is that I love Ethan and Audra with a ferocity that sometimes takes my breath away. Like all parents, I want to shield them from all of life’s pain, hurt and disappointment. I want to ease their confusion and grief. But I can’t – and that is so, so hard to accept.

It is in moments like these that I most feel like a she-bear: I fiercely desire – with a deep, primal drive -to protect them at all cost. I wish I could simply growl away or fight off the threats to their wellbeing. But I can’t. The threat this time isn’t a tangible one.

I can’t stop the waves of emotions that have already been unleashed. I don’t know how to prepare them for what is yet to come in the hours, days, weeks and months. I am in completely uncharted waters here.

And yet, that fierce love I have for my kids burns so brightly that it hurts.

I wonder if the hardest part about all of this is the sense of helplessness. I can’t change what has happened. I can’t bring Grandpa back. I can’t speed along the grieving process. I can’t take it away, and I can’t kiss this boo-boo better.

Time. That’s all I’ve got. And love. I will love them through this. I will love Dean through this. I will love myself through this. I will cushion the blows, dry the tears and listen patiently as they rage through their emotions. I will mother them through it the best I can. In a way, it almost feels like a battle to be fought – and I am preparing myself to hit the ground running – with formidable strength, courage and compassion.

I am already so incredibly proud of them for how they are handling themselves. They have been insightful, honest and wise. They have been sweet, funny and sad. They have been distracted and present, helpful and challenging.

I know that there is no way to prepare for moments in life like these. So I am left to trusting the process, leaning on my own friends and resources, saying ‘yes’ more often than ‘no’ to any requests the kids have of me, and donning my job as a role model as best as possible. This may be one of the hardest times to do so.

And what do I wish to role model for them? Being real, but brave. Finding appropriate and respectful ways to express emotions. Being thoughtful and kind while still taking care of myself and my needs (after all, I am no good to anyone if I crumble in the process).To be authentic enough to cry and ask for help – while also being a strong shoulder for others to cry on.

I am so incredibly grateful for our long-standing decision to let ourselves be real with our kids, to not shield them from the facts of life – like death and sadness – and for having taught them that they can and will feel every emotion under the sun. And that that’s okay.

And I am so grateful for all of the discussions we have had about life and death, spirituality, and the value of all of life’s experiences. (Trust me, we are not valuing this experience right now – but one day in the distant future we may be able to look back and learn from it somehow). I am so grateful for the foundation they already have from being surrounded by love – and that they know love to be the most powerful force in the universe. I can only trust that this foundation will help to see all of us through this.

Yes, I love our children fiercely. And while it pains me deeply to see and anticipate moments of great sadness from them – I know that they, too, are strong and courageous, confident in themselves and their ability to face life head on.

Like this:

This morning my Nanny passed away. ‘Nanny from Newfoundland’, as she is referred to in our household. And while I am deeply saddened, and feel the grief from our large, extended, Canada-wide family, there is a part of me that keeps a little smile among the tears. No matter what she may have appeared to be as a ninety-five-year-old woman – I’ll tell you what she actually was: formidable.

After all, at ninety-five years of age, she was still living at home on her own up until a few short days ago. Even with the events of this past year, when against all likelihood, she healed well from a broken hip in the fall, was walking again without assistance, and even got off of the oxygen tank. At 95 years of age, I have to shake my head in wonder.

At Nanny’s 90th birthday celebration with my sister Andrea

You see, underneath her unassuming appearance lay one of the most determined and pragmatic personalities imaginable. She called life as she saw it, and there was never any false pretence. With my nanny, what you saw was what you got. She cared about the simple things in life and with her, family was always first. As for her own needs, she simply wanted to be at home, in her own bed, and eating her own food. And making her own decisions – as she was fiercely independent.

As a matter of fact, her pragmatic style has long been a source of amusement in our family. For years now when anyone would speak to her about any future plans, her oft-repeated response was, ”Sure, I might be pushin’ up daisies by then, bye!” (imagine this in a strong newfie accent) So of course, when my sister called to tell her that she had booked flights to visit in June with her three girls, that was the expected response. It was a flippant way of stating the truth – that we never know what life is bringing us – and that on her end, she had come to terms with life and her eventual passing.

The smile in my heart is also from admiration. Admiration for a woman who was strong, who knew her own mind, kept her razor sharp wits about her at all times, and was at peace with life and ‘meeting her Maker’. I remember our first scare with her was over 12 years ago, when she had congestive heart failure. I remember planning my wedding that year, anticipating that she wouldn’t be around to see it. AND I remember her remarkable turn around – so that I can also remember her sitting at my wedding, full of life, and writing in our guest book that maybe she’d just stick around long enough to be a great-grandmother. Which she did. Twenty-seven times over – I might add (and one more on the way).

Nanny with five of her 27 (!) great-grandkids. Halifax, April 2012

Yes, my Nanny was a fighter. She lived through world wars, hardship and change. She lived through raising eight kids, losing a husband early on in life, and burying one of her grown sons. In recent years, she has been in and out of the hospital several times – but each time she rallied. And she returned to living at home on her own: which was exactly where she wanted to be.

Not surprisingly, our family has always rallied around her. She has never wanted for care, phone calls, or visitors. In recent months and years, my mom and siblings have arranged their lives to have someone in Newfoundland with her keeping her company, and taking care of any business at hand (which Nanny didn’t always make easy, I might add!… she liked things all done her way) But the love they all feel for this remarkable woman made it a simple decision for her children to fly from all parts of the country to spend weeks at a time with her. She enjoyed visits from her grandkids and great-grandkids from all across Canada. Quite simply, I think she lived for that.

I know, because I saw how she was filled with life and laughter simply by being around her great-grandkids. The last time we saw Nanny was two years ago when I flew to Halifax with Ethan and Audra – expressly for the purpose of having them meet and remember their great-grandmother. It was one of the best family visits in my memory, and one that I will cherish forever.

You see, everything my Nanny did was genuine. There were no contrived appearances: with her, you get what you see. But underneath the slowing body and wrinkled skin was a mind of steel and an enormous heart. Family meant everything to her.

But this time, she was ready to leave.

From what I was told, this is how the story goes: Earlier this week she developed pneumonia. And although she was advised by my aunt – who is a nurse – to go to the hospital, she stated that she would go in the morning. (I’m not sure how that sat with Aunt Paula (the nurse), or my Aunt Joanne (who was staying with Nanny at the time) – but I expect that whatever transpired, they realized that if Nanny had made up her mind to sleep the night in her own bed, there was not much they could do.) In the morning, Nanny stated that she’d go ‘right after lunch’. And after lunch she put on her coat and shoes, sat on a chair and stated that she needed a short while – before announcing that ‘she was ready to go.’

Now, I was not there, and that was told to me second-hand. But I can vividly picture Nanny – calling the shots right until the end. And I imagine – with the intuitive sense of truth – that she knew that this was her final goodbye. I imagine that she knew that she had just slept her last night in her own bed, and eaten her last meal at her own table. I imagine that she knew as she crossed the threshold of her house – the home she had lived in with her husband, the home she had raised their eight kids in, the home whose walls were filled with many decades of memories and several generations of laughter – I am certain that she knew that this was the last time.

And in this simple way, she showed her immense courage. It was in this simple, peaceful way that she lived her life. When I picture this, I am filled with awe for her simple courage, and with peace for knowing that she passed on her own terms. While she may have said that ‘she’d go when her Maker called her’, I have a sense that with her strong and determined mind she somehow managed to set it all up to her liking nonetheless.

My Nanny died in her sleep last night. And while she may not have had many people present at the time of her passing – I assure you that she was absolutely surrounded in love. With great love, sadness and joy, today we say our final goodbyes.

I am not cut out to be a teacher to my own kids… at least, not at things that require immense patience. Anything that requires a fair amount of skill – especially if it’s something that they are a little scared to try – needs to be taught by someone other than me. I think it’s a bad mix that they feel able to voice their fears and frustrations to me -unfortunately in whiny, complaining or pouting ways – which somehow hits an “off switch” in my brain. I cannot stand whining. When I hear incessant whining, out goes Patient Mom, and in comes Harsh Lady.

Harsh Lady is who ended up skiing today for a while – and it almost ruined our ski trip. While the day ended on a good note, it was at times a near-disaster. Today was our first family ski outing, and only the second time our kids have been on skis. To put this in context, downhill skiing was one of my highest passions in life during my earlier years, and something that I envisioned our family doing together often as our kids got older. While I don’t think often in labels, I saw us a ‘A Skiing Family”.

But with our busy life and priorities, it just hadn’t quite made the cut yet. Until today. I booked our tickets earlier this week and waited in childlike anticipation for Sunday morning to arrive. Inwardly, I was almost giddy with excitement: our life as a skiiing family was about to begin! I’m actually surprised I slept last night; I was that excited.

Arriving at the hill, we found out that the lesson we had planned for the kids to take wouldn’t be available for almost an hour after our arrival, and so we made the executive decision to teach them ourselves. Ethan went like a pro on the bunny hill, while Audra was one drama after the next. Picture me, trying to demonstrate and explain how to snowplow and turn – while she determinedly insisted that she ‘just couldn’t do that.‘ And after a few trips up and down the bunny hill, she was convinced that she had a complete handle on it all. I, however, sincerely doubted her ability to turn or stop… or control herself, but everyone pointed out how well she came down the bunny hill – abeit without demonstrating those essential skills – leading us to make our second not-so-great decision: we headed for the chairlifts.

All that I can say is that that first run was a complete fiasco. Audra would have stomped her feet if that was possible in skis. She froze up at every move, and nothing I did or said helped. I tried skiing with her between my skis (she would just lean her whole bodyweight into me, defeating the purpose of allowing her to find her balance and get a feel for the skis); I tried skiing backwards with her following in my tracks (but instead of snowplowing she’d let herself crash into me and then cling on for dear life); I tried having her follow me (but she’d start losing control, screaming for help while I used my poles to stop her trajectory down the hill). In our final attempt on Ski Run One, she crashed into me from behind, and fell in a flurry of skis, complete with me landing on top of her. She was crying (fortunately not hurt) – and by then, I was close to tears, too. This was NOT the fun family time I was hoping for.

Thankfully, we had no option but to keep going if we were ever going to get off the hill, no matter who was frustrated (me) or angry and cranky (Audra). Dean and Ethan were at the bottom waiting for us – and had enjoyed two more runs in the time span it had taken Audra and I to complete that one run from hell.

So we kid-swapped: Dean with Audra & me with Ethan. Ok, I’ll admit it – I breathed a sigh of relief. I had used up all of my patience stores on that one run and I was all up for having a fun one with Ethan.

On our way up the chairlift, we watched a ski school go down the run below us. “Let’s do that one!”, Ethan exclaimed. “Sure”, I said. It looked a little steeper, but not difficult, and he seemed to have a good hold on his control. So off we went – down Ethan’s first black diamond (for the record, it would be more fairly graded as a blue, or mid-level run, but he was thrilled to be going on a black run).

Pre-run smiles

All things began well – as he skied ahead of me. But as I watched him pick up speed, his level of control was definitely less apparent. “Turn, Ethan!” I called out, “Slow down!”. But he couldn’t. I followed along as he bombed the hill – I’m sure I was holding my breath. As he neared the end and was nearly to the chairlift, I breathed a sigh of relief. He made it. Phew.

But my relief was premature. From my vantage point on the hill, I watched him go flying up the embankment and smash into the fence at high speed. (I think my heart stopped) Fortunately, he was already standing by the time I made it to him. His skis had flown off. The fence was broken. My first frantic concern was if he was hurt. (He was not – although I am very glad that as a chiropractor I could check him as soon as we got home.) In the aftermath of my fright, I immediately launched into him: “Why didn’t you stop?” “Why didn’t you turn?” “What if you had gotten hurt?!” “What if you had hurt someone else?!”

I’ll admit, it was not one of my best parenting moments. Here he was, shaken up – probably in a bit of shock – and instead of hugging him, I let my own overwrought emotions take over. And he was so mad at me. With a quivering lip, he looked me in the eye and said, “I don’t want to ski anymore,” and walked off. So Ski Run Two was even more of a disaster. And I was on the verge of tears… again. This was definitely NOT how I had pictured this day. Added to the fright I had watching him crash was a great mix of self-directed anger. Anger for making such poor decisions. Anger for losing my cool so many times with my kids. (And underneath it, if I’m going to be honest: a childlike sulkiness that the day wasn’t going my way) All in all, I think I was so excited for us to all ski together that I neglected the learning required for us to do so safely and happily, and within our kids’ beginner levels. This is how my tendency to be impatient can get the best of me.

Here I was, consumed with frustration, knowing that I had dealt poorly with both of my kids. And I wondered if I may have potentially ruined their desire to ski in my haste.

Fortunately, our day began to turn around, although it was slow transition at first. Audra had a great run with Dean, and learned that she could control her own speed. And after ten minutes of sitting in the snowbank, insisting that he was not skiing anymore, Ethan opted to join us again as well.

It took a few runs for him to get his confidence back (“I CAN’T turn, Mom. I just CAN’T…. “) At first Ethan skied down with a pout on his face – it was like skiing with a storm cloud. (And I think I heard my year’s-worth of ‘I can’ts’ in our first hour on the hill today – yet another reason my patience was worn thin: we consider that to being tantamount to a swear word in our house) It took another few runs for him to stop being mad at me, and for me to stop sulking that our days as a skiing family were over before they had even begun. But gradually he lightened up, as did I – and the day started to improve.

All in all, we stuck it out together – hitting up all of the green runs on the hill. The kids started to find their groove, and glowering faces began to smile. The tension in my shoulders began to lessen, and we started to have more fun. Another deep breath – maybe it would still be possible.

Hours later, as I tucked them into bed, I asked them the same three questions I ask every night: “What did you do well today? What are you grateful for? And what was the best part of your day?” Both Ethan and Audra had the same answer to all three nightly questions: SKIING.

Ethan told me his day was a 9 out of 10 (as my eyebrows shot up in surprise, he laughed as said “Well, maybe it was an 8.5“) Audra said, “It was one of the best days ever! (pause) “But I was pretty cranky for a while.”

So….even though personally I’d give the day a 6 out of 10 based on the roller coaster of emotions I experienced – I’d have to say it appears that the day was a hit after all. (no pun intended!)

The injured fence

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The lofty side of this is that I am a mom on a mission. I am striving to create a better world by being the best, most inner-directed mother I know how to be. The other side of this is that I became a mom.... on purpose. Meaning, I chose this. But man, it can be hard.

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The lofty side of this is that I am a mom on a mission. I am striving to create a better world by being the best, most inner-directed mother I know how to be. The other side of this is that I became a mom... on purpose. Meaning, I chose this. But man, it can be hard.